


Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story

by nix_this



Series: Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Angst and Humor, Filthy Fucking Language, Frottage, M/M, Pining, What the Frot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nix_this/pseuds/nix_this
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim doesn't even know where to start. Blurting out: 'I got shot in the ass by this planet's version of cupid, only with more teeth and claws, and then I fucked Uhura's boyfriend on the ground after the most emotionally intimate experience of my sad, sad life' seems crass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story

Destiny is a bitch. A mean-spirited, evil bitch, best avoided at all costs.

Jim knows this, he thinks as he gapes in abject horror at the blue-clad arm banding around his chest. He knows he knows this. He's been saying it for fucking ever, man.

The trick is actually listening to himself.

But he's getting ahead of the story here. From the beginning...

No, that'll take too long.

From the second he let his guard down and got an arrow full of love juice right in the _goddamn ass_ , then.

No. No. That probably won't make much sense without context.

Start with Spock. It _always_ seems to start with Spock.

 _Kobayashi Maru_. Ice planet. _Destiny_. Hitherto unknown breathplay kink uncovered  
in front of his entire bridge crew, leading him to go on to save the world despite cracked ribs, a bruised throat and an erection he could pound nails with. Awkward.

After all of that, spooning in the middle of a mission after coming in his pants like a fucking teenager is really only the latest in a long line of Spock-related mind-fuckery.

Too much information? Too bad.

***

  
Missions come in via subspace regularly. ‘Five year mission’ is actually something of a misnomer--it isn’t five years of spacefaring carefully plotted out in advance, but more like a mission statement and general itinerary with the details subject to change. They go where they are needed, however that's communicated. Free time (ha!) is easily filled in with distress signals, exploration, and the dreaded star charting. Well, dreaded for everyone but Spock and his department of nerd minions, of course. Jim considers himself a scientist, and his bridge crew alone have enough letters after their names to start their own alphabet--heavily weighted on the basic side of the Ph scale if he wants to get clever about it, heh-- but cartography and positioning, while exceptionally useful, aren't exactly the type of thrilling adventures and dramatic discoveries they signed up for.

Spock and his groupies, on the other hand, revel in it. Even in the dullest of rotations--when the past and future merge together to resemble an endless expanse of stars that need charting, when the engineers have long since turned to building robots out of scrap metal, and medical starts thinking they should maybe get a jump on that year end inventory coming up... in, oh, eleven months--there's still, always, a sea of eager faces in blue uniforms hotly debating nomenclature and mapping out new constellations with wide eyed fervor. Spock, himself, can cheerfully bend over his station for hours on end (current record: thirteen and a half, and it would have gone on indefinitely had Jim not staged an intervention) and never lose his enthusiasm for the task (for a Vulcan, enthusiasm shows in the slightly crisper diction when he's reciting coordinate shifts).

It's not enough to keep Jim's mind occupied, though. Being the captain means he's got to sit there, looking appropriately solemn and approving, while the crew completes the monotonous routines of dead space. And, ask anyone, an idle Kirk is a recipe for disaster, so it shouldn't exactly come as a surprise when his thoughts start to drift in inappropriate directions because he's fucking bored, man. It does though. It always fucking does. He'll probably be dead before he loses his ability to surprise himself.

He almost fell out of the chair all those months ago, when he first caught his attention wandering, repeatedly, to Spock's ass throughout the alpha shift. The low thrum of awareness he always seems to have of his first officer had settled itself more or less constantly into his pants after that. As a result, he was usually half-hard whenever they were together, despite the urgent 'down boy' signals he tried to transmit via imaginings of one Ensign Keenser _in flagrante delicto_ with Admiral Archer.

Talk about boldly going where angels should bloody well fear to tread (and yes, he knows he's crossing his references, but he's James T Kirk – he's _allowed_ to mix his aphorisms). This new development poses a series of challenges, even for the most intrepid of starship captains.

Consider:

Spock is his First Officer.

Counter:

Anti-fraternization regs are frequently referred to as the best laugh in the entire Starfleet Code of Conduct.

Consider:

Spock isn't here for Jim, not like Bones is. They get along fine, sure, okay. Saving the world together and all that (and it's not fucking _destiny_ despite what Cave Spock tries to imply during their bimonthly comms), and yeah, they've been spending more and more time together, because they've got to be a team if they're going to make the _Enterprise_ and her crew live up to all of that awesome potential. But, on the road from bitter rivals to soul mates, they're kinda stalled at the junction between friend and coworker, which is light years away from even fuck buddy territory. Jim's been down this road before, he figures he knows how to read the damn signs.

Counter:

He's James T Kirk. He can charm the pants off a Klingon if he needs to. (The proof is in the archives, and the less said about that incident, the better.)

Consider:

Uhura.

Counter:

Well--

And that's what stops him short.

He's been a lot of things to a lot of people in his time, but he's not a fucking homewrecker (shipwrecker? Whatever-wrecker). He _likes_ Uhura. Admires her, even. If they're happy, he's happy and he's not about to come between them just because he's bored and Spock's presenting to him on the bridge every damn day. So what if Spock's developed this annoying habit of completely hijacking his every waking hour with images of green flushed skin pricking with sweat and long, lean muscles arching up under Jim's hands? Jim Kirk does not poach. Jim Kirk does not betray his friends just so he can get his rocks off. Jim Kirk will control this ridiculous crush, pronto.

Jim Kirk will also stop referring to himself in the third person, because Jim Kirk is not bonkers.

Where was he?

Right. Subspace. Spock. Rawr.

So yeah, by day six of trying not to look like he's looking when Spock's uniform stretches over the curve of his perfect ass, and his tunic and undershirt ride up that fraction of an inch to expose a tiny sliver of pale skin, making Jim's pants get a little bit tighter, he could kiss Uhura when she announces that she's picking up a signal in subspace. A perfectly friendly kiss, between friends, because that's what they are. Friendly friends who kiss all friendly like and absolutely do not abstractly scheme to steal each other's boyfriends as purely mental exercises. (Sadly, he's pretty sure he's speaking only of Uhura on that last one, but having a plan doesn't mean he has to use the plan and just showing up naked in Spock's bed? Isn't one of his best plans anyway.)

He swivels to face her, perhaps a little too eagerly for the solemn and dignified captain persona he's trying to project, and beams, ignoring the knowing amusement in her returning smile. "Patch it through to General Address, Lieutenant."

Amplified solar radiation comes through like radio static at first. You get used to it, and filter it out like so much white noise, but Jim has nothing but respect for Uhura's ability to distinguish even the subtlest variations in intensity. Her proficiency with languages is one thing, an amazing thing, but the Universal Translator is growing every day so it's actually her aural sensitivity over subspace transmissions that makes her his prize in the Communications lottery. He can't hear a damn thing, and if she weren't a consummate professional during duty hours, he'd suspect she was having him on to break the monotony.

"Can you boost the signal at all, Lieutenant Uhura?"

"On it, Captain." Her clever fingers twist and clatter at her control panel - filtering, augmenting, simplifying the music she hears in space for the benefit of her tone deaf superiors.

He hears it now, a low hum under the hiss, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Position, Mister Spock?"

Spock's head is canted slightly left, focusing on the rhythm even as he adjusts his sensors to probe for the source.

 _He's beautiful,_ Jim thinks fondly. And promptly panics. Appreciating Spock's finer physical attributes is one thing, but when the flavour of his thoughts turns to tenderness, he knows he's cruising rapidly towards completely fucked.

So he does what he does best and smiles through it, thinks of his good _friend_ Uhura and crosses his legs.

“It appears to becoming from a neighbouring sector, approximately 128.3 light years away, Captain.”

“Isn’t that-” Jim starts, a hint of recognition niggling away at the back of his brain. Fiddler something, maybe?

“The _Fidelus Amemus_ sector!” Chekov interjects. He’s getting better at containing the periodic bursts of enthusiasm whenever he knows the right answer, but Jim can tell he’s on the verge of squirming and suppressing the impulse to clap. It’s a little bit adorable, to be honest, though he doesn’t let so much as a twitch of his lips betray it. He can be perfectly professional, when it doesn’t involve Spock.

“Right. Thank you, Mister Chekov. What do we know about _Fidelus Amemus_? Other than that whoever named it spoke really cheesy Latin.”

"It's not cheesy, Keptin," Chekov insists. "It's home sector to Elaphe! In legend, it's the source of all love in all the universe."

“Ah, thank you, Mister Chekov for the history lesson. Sulu, how quickly can you get us there?”

“Two days at Warp 4, Captain.” Sulu responds smoothly.

Chekov’s eyes widen, and he launches a smile at Sulu that threatens to overtake his dimples and crash into his ears. The Best Of Anti-Frat Olympics going on between the _Enterprise_ and the _Constellation_ aside, Jim doesn't want to win because his navigator jumps his helmsman in the middle of their shifts. Again. He coughs.

“Bozhe moi,” Chekov breathes, swinging around to meet Jim’s now openly amused grin.

“Keptin, we must - I mean, is it? Can we-?”

“I thought we’d cured your stutter, Ensign,” Jim says, “after the incident with the Klingons.” Amazing actually, how the difference between "Unhand me, solemn dignitary" and "Take me now, you virile warrior" is only two repeated syllables in Klingon. An easy mistake to make in the heat of the moment and a distinction Jim hadn't really given too much thought, despite his tenure as Xenolinguistics Club Treasurer. Until he'd had to.

“I thought we weren’t talking about that, Captain,” Sulu deadpans. "But, if we are, I've been meaning to ask you about-"

“Spit it out, Chekov,” Jim says quickly, maturely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Sulu. Honestly, he jumped off a drill for the guy, is it too much to ask him for a little back up on the bridge?

“Captain, today's stardate is 2259.43. In two days it will be the Saint Valentine's Day and we will be arriving at the most romantic planet in the known universe!"

Jim frowns and sneaks a glance at Spock. They've been hooking up weekly to break in the chessboard the crew had gotten for their beloved captain for his birthday in a desperate bid to find him a _safe_ hobby. (Cheeky buggers. As if he wouldn't _own_ Extreme Chess if it existed.) Yesterday had been the first anniversary of the destruction of Vulcan, and he'd been surprised when Spock had shown up for a game a day early.

They hadn't spoken of the significance of the day. Spock seemed content to just play and chat as normal, not even pouting when Jim employed some very creative strategizing to earn a win, and Jim had been happy enough to just be there for him.

Spock's face shows no sign of distress, but it probably wouldn't anyway. He surveys the rest of his bridge crew.

Chekov is beaming at him again, Sulu's smirk is morphing into a grin, and, stars above, even Uhura's mask of cool professionalism has warmed into something hopeful.

"Fine, fine," he concedes to the unspoken request like the giant authoritative pushover he is. " _After_ we investigate the whatever-that-is," he says, gesturing vaguely to indicate the thrum still pumping through the speakers, "I'll see about arranging us some Valentine's leave on the resort planet."

Whooping cheers may not be the typical response to a new mission, but Jim thinks it's not such a bad one. He smiles too and relaxes into his chair, surrounded by his fellows and looking forward to a new mystery and some well earned downtime in a peaceful sector.

He really should know better by now.

***

  
The day before they're due to arrive at Elaphe (almost five full hours ahead of schedule because Scotty is apparently a God of Physics when leave--and the possibility of gourmet sandwiches--is on the line), Jim's pacing his quarters and trying to deny that the flutter in his stomach is anything other than a bad reaction to the mystery loaf served in the Officer's Mess that night. The crew has been positively moony since he announced that they'd been cleared for a week of leave on Elaphe, and, while efficiency hadn't dropped, the grins and general bonhomie were getting a little hard to take.

It's not that Jim has anything against true love in general or Valentine's Day in particular, it's just that, he hasn't--that is, there hasn't been the opportunity to even try it, in a long fucking time. (And no, the Klingon emissary absolutely doesn't count. Just. No.) And, well, he's kind of, maybe, a little bit lonely. He hasn't had anything even approaching a _relationship_ since the Academy when he and Gaila had been determined to christen every wing and available surface on campus (and several within San Francisco proper as well), but even that had been a casual, no strings attached kind of deal. She's still healing up from the injuries sustained aboard the _Farragut_ during Nero's epic shit-fit and, reading between the lines, she and a certain Admiral are enjoying some rather unorthodox physio together, so it's not like he can pretend she's waiting for him.

He's been effectively alone for just over a year now, which is probably why this... thing... with Spock is fucking with his head so hard. He's been imagining them together, and true to the idle Kirk brain being a bad, bad place, he's not just imagining hot sex in the Captain's Chair anymore. Oh no, he's gone full out into fucking domesticity, picturing days working side-by-side, nights spent cuddling in his generous bed, morning sex in the shower ending with a chaste kiss before resuming their duties. In short, _strings_. Hundreds of the knotty little bastards, tying him down in mostly non-kinky ways and, for the first time in his sad little life, he craves it. With Spock. And he could just about kill Cave Spock for putting those images in his head, because he's not really just imagining it, is he? Not when he can _remember_ what it feels like to wake up next to Spock--or to kiss him surreptitiously with two clandestine fingers on the bridge--and he misses it, even though he's never had it. In this universe, anyway.

Or whatever.

Which brings him back to the little bout of _food poisoning_ (what? He's got a very delicate system - just ask Bones!) he's trying to walk off. Spock's coming in to play their weekly chess game and now that Jim realizes he's warping into unrequited love with his first officer, his evil, awful brain keeps trying to attach _significance_ to every little gesture Spock makes. He's getting shaky in his herculean efforts to _repress_ which is all shades of bad news because, as previously mentioned, Uhura is his goddamn friend and he attended the Vulcan Protocol seminar in Third Year like everyone else. He knows Spock's rocking the touch telepathy, and while that shouldn't come up in a typical Human-Vulcan interaction, he and Spock are friends and Spock's become distressingly tactile lately. Almost... flirty?

And since that's clearly impossible, fuck his brain for plying him with hope. If it weren't for the stupid fantasies and lurid dreams, he'd probably be ecstatic that Spock was finally loosening up around him. He'd be grateful that they were on the path to the (not destined, dammit) epic friendship that had made their counterparts legendary. He'd be satisfied with what he had and not constantly _yearning_ for more.

He certainly wouldn't be about to hurl from _food poisoning_ when the tinkling (mocking) chime at his door announces Spock's arrival.

"Enter," he calls out before he's really ready, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs.

Spock hesitates for his typical half-second before stepping through the archway and it's a sure sign of how far gone Jim really is when he drinks in the sight of Spock flanked in dull grey steel as if he were a portrait enhanced by the finest gilt frame. Jim goes for cool and casual, crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the table where the chess set has taken permanent residence.

"Hey, Spock. Ready to get schooled again?"

One elegant eyebrow arches. "I am unfamiliar with that term, Jim, though I can deduce you expect to defeat me again." His tone is measured, but his posture practically screams: "Bring it!"

"I play to win, Mister," Jim says with a grin, he loves cocky Spock almost as much as baffled Spock. He straightens and nudges one of the chairs out with his foot. "And since I won last time, you get white."

Spock's only reaction to the taunt is a slight nod, which is disappointing since snarky Spock is an absolute riot.

Spock takes his seat and immediately opens with Bartmess's Gambit. Jim ignores the textbook defense and edges one of his knight's pawns towards the neutral board. They play in companionable silence, Spock's moves weighed and considered while Jim does his best to appear to be countering at random. He even is, half the time. Spock doesn't actually grind his teeth in frustration, but he can communicate his disapproval with a single eyebrow rather eloquently. It's kind of hot.

Jim gains steady ground and manages to defeat one of Spock's carefully laid traps with his queen leading the charge. It's a furious battle, fraught with eyebrows, gimlet gazes and one instance of Spock's tongue poking out absently to wet his lips while he counters. Jim quietly notes the shine and fierce concentration for later tonight, when he's alone, and tries not to feel too skeevy about it. His queen eventually goes down, of course, but not before laying waste to both white knights and a clutch of pawns, leaving Spock's king to be defended by one lonely rook.

When it's obvious that the best Spock can hope for is a stalemate, he concedes graciously and studies the board for a minute, giving Jim ample time to absolutely not contemplate the perfectly bite-able line of his throat, before breaking the silence.

"Regarding tomorrow," Spock starts carefully, as if he's uncomfortable, or bored, or happy, or, you know, _Vulcan_.

"Don't worry, buddy. I booked you and Uhura for first rotation once we're done with the official inquiry." Jim's smile is easy, despite the fact that the queasiness in his guts has made a sudden, unpleasant return.

"That will not be necessary, Jim."

"Of course it is! Look, I know Valentine's Day didn't exist on Vulcan, but it's pretty important on Earth. Especially to the ladies."

"I do not see how that is relevant."

"Well," Jim says, nonplussed. He feels a momentary pang of sympathy for Uhura and her choice of the least romantic boyfriend in the history of ever. "Not to the mission, maybe. But after. Valentine's Day is when you show the person that you care about just how much they mean to you."

Spock's interest is finally piqued. "Indeed? I had done some research on the observance after Ensign Chekov's outburst."

Jim nods. "And?"

"It does not seem logical to commemorate the deaths of two obscure historical figures, seemingly unattached to romantic notions throughout the course of their lives, with offerings of paper hearts and candied flowers."

Jim winces and rubs at the back of his neck, sparing a moment to think that Uhura was going to owe him so hard for this. "Well, no, from that perspective it's probably not logical. But it's _love_ , Spock. Love isn't supposed to be logical!"

"I see." Spock's eyebrows snap in, indicating that he really, really doesn't. "So you believe that love should be demonstrated by scheduled offerings of no real value?"

So fucking hard, he muses as he shifts in his chair. He's just earned the right to call her Nyota off duty. "Well, no. Not just then. But it's nice, you know? To have somebody and to show them that you care. And it's the one time of year where you can be as open and as demonstrative as you want and no one's gonna question it." Jim trails off softly and studies the section of wall just over Spock's shoulder where the portrait of his father hangs slightly crooked. He should probably fix that.

Spock leans forward, and it's a credit to the Starfleet Academy's command training that Jim doesn't flinch back from the sudden proximity. Their chairs have somehow magically transported themselves away from opposite edges of the small square table and have been orchestrating a covert rendez-vous while he was distracted. They're close now, enough so that Jim's traitorous hands could reach out and touch if he weren't actively willing them down.

"And this appeals to you? This chance to demonstrate the depth of your emotion so openly?" Spock's eyes are intense, studying Jim closely as if he were a particularly fascinating new life form ripe for discovery.

 _Damn Vulcan curiosity._ It's no wonder his brain gets these stupid _ideas_ under the weight of these moments. If it were anybody but Spock, Jim would be doing a victory dance and moving them past the awkwardly intimate conversation stage on to bigger and better things. Of the naked variety.

But it is Spock. His beautifully oblivious, endlessly inquisitive friend, Spock. Who has gradually been dropping his guard around Jim, letting his dry wit and warm humour show through in their off duty hours. Who is the first thing Jim sees when he comes to in sick bay these days (though a cranky Bones is still always the second, his trusted stabby implements of medical torture running a close third). Spock, who apparently now trusts him enough to ask for relationship advice. It's kind of cute, in a wistful, achy sort of way (if bitterly ironic, in a 'Fuck you, Universe, you miserable cunt' sort of way). So, Jim affects an easy sprawl and a lazy smile instead of a strip tease and a sexy smirk. "Sure, why wouldn't it?" he asks breezily. "Most humans go for the big gesture, Spock. Even if we're too proud to admit it. We've been raised in a culture rife with the epic romances. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Wesley and Buttercup. There's this cultural ideal of your one and only, your perfect match, and it's only natural to want it, and celebrate it, even if it's only for a day."

"I find it curious that you've listed only tragedies as examples, Jim."

Jim laughs. "I guess you've read the original Goldman, then?"

Something flashes in Spock's eyes, a momentary pang of sorrow softened by a sweet memory. "It was a favourite of my mother's."

Ah. Jim relaxes his grip on the arm of his chair and rests his hand lightly on the sleeve of Spock's tunic. "Mine too."

The silence stretches between them, and for the life of him Jim can't put a name to the emotion reflecting in Spock's eyes. He seems so soft, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, that all Jim wants to do is lean in and press his lips against the faint furrow between Spock's brows until that searching look is quieted. He stands instead, pulling back his hand and curling his fingers in to hold the lingering heat from Spock's skin a little bit longer.

Spock rises to face him, the indecipherable emotion shuttering behind a mask of stoicism.

Jim's voice is unnaturally loud when he finds it again. "Right. So. The mission tomorrow-"

"I wish to be included in the primary landing party," Spock interrupts. His voice is clipped and neutral, jarring the atmosphere from the closeness of only moments before to something awkward and strained. Jim can only hope this hour of Talking About Feelings hasn't given away his stupid, hopeless crush and ruined everything for good.

"Oh, I thought-" Jim stops himself.

"Yes?"

"Never mind. It's fine, I should have figured you'd be curious about the subspace pulse too." He smiles again. At least he'll get some time with Spock tomorrow, even if it is a routine inquiry into spatial anomalies. "Sure, no problem. I'll log the roster change tonight before I hit the hay."

Something in Spock's shoulders loosens, as if he'd been worried that his request would be refused. He seems about to say something, but stops himself. He makes a blatant show of searching Jim's room in confusion. "I see no equine fodder here, Jim, nor do I understand the logic in striking it, were it present."

Jim laughs, and they're at an even keel again. Friends. "You know damn well what I meant. Now get out of here, for I am very busy and important and need my beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow and alla that."

"Indeed," says Spock with relish. "Without you, who else would the historically peaceful Elaphians fire upon?"

"Hey! That was _one_ time," Jim says with mock affront.

"Or kidnap."

"Not my fault! We had no way of knowing that the Grats were collaborating with the Klingon Empire."

"Or elect to lead their revolution."

"Out. Now."

Spock's eyes twinkle as he inclines his head. "Good evening, Jim."

"Yeah, yeah. G'night, Spock." Jim waves him out the door with a laugh.

He's still smiling after he adds Spock to the landing party and settles in to sleep.

He dreams of Spock.

***

  
The relaxed cheer follows him to the mission.

Elaphe lives up to the hype as the perfect place to fall in love. The forests are lush, filled with brightly coloured foliage that sways lazily in the warm breeze, painting the sky with palimpsest patterns, layering and dissolving and layering anew. Jim could stare up for hours, letting the imagery roll directly into his subconscious without structure or meaning. They've passed a half dozen sets of lovers doing exactly that on their winding path from the main resort into the woods. The sweet scents of flowers and earth mingle in the air, and he thinks he finally understands why Spock loves meditating. He's never felt so relaxed, or so peaceful, just from _being_.

"I think we've stumbled on paradise, Mister Spock."

Spock frowns at his tricorder and fiddles with the settings again. "I trust you recall what transpired last time we 'stumbled on paradise', Captain."

Jim grimaces. Right. The cult thing. To be fair, Bones had done most of the stumbling that time, but he and Spock had had to do some fast talking and faster shooting to get them all out intact.

Elaphe was nothing like Dworzhe Desyat, though. Exhibit A: note the distinct lack of people trying to kill them. He was mostly joking about paradise, anyway. It always struck him as a very dull place to be for any length of time. Still, Elaphe was pretty.

Rico and Flores, the two Science Officers that make up the rest of the small party, orbit Jim and Spock, periodically scanning the grounds and the bushes while Spock makes his adjustments. The source of the pulse continues to elude them, even though they can all feel it around them. The Elaphian delegation had been delighted when they described their mission, though they admitted no knowledge of the signal or its purpose. They'd heard Jim out, conferred in an excited huddle and packed them off without further explanation to investigate the surrounding area, promising a guide to assist them.

They'd been gracious enough, but it was all a little bit suspect. Still, Jim thinks philosophically, if they were going to chase a mystery, it might as well be somewhere beautiful. Balmy breezes and friendly natives make for a nice change of pace.

Their guide, a tiny bipedal deer-like woman, waits patiently at the mouth of a clearing. She observes them with interest, wide brown eyes studying them each in turn. Jim wanders over to her, figuring he might as well pick the brains of a local while they wait for Spock's go ahead.

"Daim, wasn't it?"

She startles at the sound of his voice, her ears perking up as she turns to face him. "Yes. And you are Captain Kirk."

They exchange bows.

"So how'd you get stuck with babysitting duties?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "Not stuck, Captain. It's an honour to assist the Federation, it's been years since our last questing."

He stifles his frown. That had definitely not been in the archives. "Questing?"

Daim nods, seeming pleased by the query. "There are legends here that only those touched by destiny can find the heart of the world. They'll be drawn here by the pulse of time and it is our honour to guide them to their true path."

Destiny, eh? More like a brand new marketing scheme for the planet of loooove. He spares a rueful thought for the mission report, wondering how exactly he's going to word 'giant fucking hoax' in a way that won't get him reprimanded for wasting resources. Maybe he'll let Spock write up this one.

Jim casts a sidelong glance at his first officer. He's standing a few feet away, in the process of reslinging his tricorder strap across his chest. He darts a glance between Jim and Daim, frowning slightly.

"Everything OK, Mister Spock? Any luck with the readings?"

"Negative, Captain. Though I can sense the pulse, our instruments detect no unusual energies. It defies logic."

"Well Daim insists it's destiny, so maybe we need to adjust for that?" He winks at Daim, who tilts her ears back in amusement.

Spock's frown deepens. "Perhaps we should return to the ship and conduct more research, Captain. I believe Commander Scott can assist me in developing a more precise sensor."

Jim grins. "Nonsense, Mister Spock. We can all feel it, even if the tricorders can't." He waves toward the clearing. "It's definitely stronger in that direction. Let's go check it out."

Daim bows to Spock. "I've lived here all my life, Mister Spock. I promise I won't get you lost!"

"There you go. We'll just take a walk in the woods with a beautiful woman, no tricorders necessary."  
He's actually kind of looking forward to it, now that he's figured out the scheme. Spock still looks conflicted though, his elegant fingers resting on the tricorder at his hip absently. Jim tilts his head to the path and lifts a brow in challenge.

Spock sighs. "Very well."

"Perfect!" Jim enthuses, almost rubbing his hands together in glee. He dismisses Officers Rico and Flores instead, since he and Spock can handle general observation handily enough on their own. He bows theatrically to Daim. "Lead on, milady. To destiny!"

***

  


So: tempting fate, mocking destiny, ignoring Spock's warnings and dismissing the rest of the landing party. Jim had managed, in the space of five minutes, to create ideal conditions for shit to go seriously awry.

There's no excuse, really, for him not to have seen it coming.

He didn't, though. Which is why, after an hour of following Daim deeper into the woods, stopping occasionally to admire the view (especially when the path narrows and Spock's walking in front of him), he's a little bit slow to react to the sudden oppressive silence when they step into another clearing.

One minute the pulse is thrumming around them, a pleasant vibration in the air, the next-- nothing. Spock's already going for his phaser when Jim twigs to the sense of _wrong_. The forest around them erupts into a cloud of tiny, winged creatures - pitching and heaving like an angry sea. Their cries are shrill, pitched just this side of ear-bleeding and Jim can't make sense of what he's seeing. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of sparrow sized mad men dart past his head, scratching and clawing at his face, tangling in his hair, screeching all the while.

He swats and tries for his phaser, but they seem to be aware of what the weapon is for and every time his hand closes on the grip, he's buffeted by another swarm until he's forced to release it and swipe ineffectually at the air around him.

Spock's facing him, his phaser actually clear of its holster, though he has yet to fire. His brows are drawn in tight, and he bats furiously with his right hand as he tries to clear a field so that he can take aim and disrupt the frenzied throng.

Daim's nowhere to be seen, but there's an itch at the back of Jim's neck like he's being watched. A flash of movement to his left, bigger, more threatening than the clouds of diminutive bloodthirsty flying fuckers, is all he registers before he's jumping at Spock, tackling him to the ground and shielding his body with his own.

They hit hard, the loss of air as it's knocked out of his lungs paralyzes Jim. Spock oofs beneath him, similarly stunned.

It's quiet again. The screaming cuts off as abruptly as it began. Even the breeze seems to have stopped.

He lifts his head and sees Spock.

Their faces are only a breath apart. Spock's eyes are startled and wide. Every point of contact is hot and solid and perfectly realized. He's dreamed this before. Well, minus the threat of unknown assailants. And the distinct burn of pain radiating from his ass.

Wait.

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

"Jim? Jim, what's wrong?"

"I'm hit. Fuck!"

He scrambles a bit, trying to look back and see the injury, hissing as his jerky movements aggravate the wound. Spock wraps an arm around his back, effectively pinning him in place.

"Cease. You will only injure yourself further."

Jim bites his lip and looks back into Spock's eyes, forcing himself to still at the obvious concern. He breathes out shakily and nods. "You're right. Of course." He braces his arms on the ground and tries to shift his weight to his uninjured side.

Spock's grip loosens and he carefully raises his head to peer over Jim's shoulder, down the length of his body. Jim's blaming the throbbing pain for his urge to giggle at the fact that Spock is legitimately staring at his ass. Clearly, he's delirious.

He shakes his head to clear it. Crisis. Right. People are shooting at him. Someone has already shot him. In the ass.

"Are they still here?" he mumbles, teeth gritted against the pain.

Spock shakes his head, soft hair brushing against Jim's cheek. It kind of tingles. "No. They seem to have fled."

Jim huffs a laugh. "So they came out just to shoot me in the ass and run away? That's new."

"Indeed."

"Any sign of Daim?"

Spock's grip tightens again, immobilizing Jim. There's a rustle of fabric and some really nice friction Jim does his best to ignore. He catches a glimpse of flashing red out of the corner of his eye, but he's too distracted by the warmth of Spock's body and the little line between his brows to pay it much notice. A vague thrill of unease twists in his stomach, but it feels too far away to be bothered with right now.

"My tricorder is no longer functioning. The area appears to be clear, however."

"Communicator?"

Another rustle, this one pushes Spock's chest harder into Jim's and makes him shiver.

"Spock to _Enterprise_."

Nothing. Spock cycles through the channels calmly. More nothing. It's like they're being blocked, somehow.

Jim grunts and wedges his hand between them, straining for the uncomfortable lump digging into his left hip. He works it free with a hiss as it jostles the whatever-the-fuck is embedded in his _ass_ and pushes it towards Spock. "Try mine."

Spock repeats the calls, alternating channels after a full five seconds as per SOP. "There appears to be no signal, though both units seem functional."

Jim nods. It figures. He wanted to spend some time with Spock today, so why not do it injured and stranded? Fucking destiny. He shifts a bit, the resulting twinge of pain cutting through his lethargy. It's weird, definitely not a phaser burn or even an old-fashioned bullet, wasn't hot enough for that. The pain throbs, radiating out from the source in unhappy ripples. Almost like a...

"So, you gonna tell me what's lodged in my ass?"

There's a bare pause before Spock says: "It appears to be a crude form of an arrow, Jim. The fletching bears a remarkable similarity to an iconic heart."

"You're fucking kidding me."

"No."

"Can you pull it out?"

"I do not believe that would be wise."

Jim tries to be bothered by this, but he's getting kind of fuzzy again. He twitches and whimpers a little, but it's a manly whimper. Spock runs a careful hand down his side as if to soothe him and Jim melts helplessly into it. He wonders absently if he and Uhura ever lie like this...

The figurative klaxons chime red alert, in time for a thrilling bout of nausea. This is wrong. "Spock?"

"Yes, Jim?"

"I think there was something on the arrow. Like a drug, or something."

Spock stiffens beneath him. "I will need to examine the wound immediately. I am going to attempt to move you, Jim."

Jim tries to lift his head, but the way the world's spinning discourages him from the effort. He nods into Spock's neck and braces himself for pain. "S'okay. Do it."

Spock shifts and grips Jim's biceps, which Jim finds pretty nice, all things considered. He has a second to marvel at the show of strength when Spock straight lifts him before his leg spasms and his muscles clench around the arrow, drowning all the warm fuzzies in a wave of agony.

He might have passed out for a second there, cause he's blinking away dirt and various forms of forest detritus before he realizes he's face down in the stuff.

"Spock?" he tries, and though it's muffled and more like a "Spourh?", he figures his message got across.

"I believe that I should attempt to remove the arrow, Jim."

His reply is muffled by the dirt again and he's a bit embarrassed when he finally realizes that he can _turn his head_. Just a bit though, mostly he's relieved he doesn't have to keep spitting sod. He turns and repeats himself: "No shit. Sorry."

There's a tearing sound beside him.

"Spock? Are you tearing off your clothes in a fit of passion? 'Cause while I applaud the sentiment, really, now is _not_ the time."

The pause that follows is _heavy_ with all sorts of implications and Jim's maybe a little bit mortified when Spock coughs and says, in the soothing kind of voice reserved for small, frightened animals: "I will need to bind the wound once I remove the arrow. My undershirt remains clean enough for the task."

 _Undershirt..._

Whoa. Whoa. Does that mean Spock is _topless_.

He almost gives himself whiplash in his effort to sneak a peek. It's wasted when Spock pins him with one steady hand on the center of his back.

"Be still, Jim," Spock says, gently. "This will hurt."

Jim obeys without comment. Mostly. "Kinky Vulcan."

Another pause. Jim amuses himself for a second by imagining that all of the things he could say to fill the awkward silence have come to life and are battling it out around them.

"I Love You" would totally kick "So, How About That Local Sports Team?"'s ass.

It's probably for the best that Spock chooses that particular instant to yank.

Jim arches with pain, colouring the air in the clearing with a litany of "Fuck! Shit! OW!" as his skin tears. The arrowhead catches on his pants and he can hear them ripping wider.

The pain ebbs and subsides, leaving him shaking in the dirt. Tracks of tears cool on the side of his face exposed to the air. He feels a brush of something at his hips and cranes his neck weakly to look.

He can see Spock now, working quickly to bind the sluggish flow of blood. His pants are lowered to his thighs, leaving his ass exposed so Spock can treat the wound. He wants to giggle but it seems like too much effort at the moment. He settles back to enjoy the view, instead. He was right, before. Spock is topless, all of that pale skin is gleaming in the sunlight that filters through the trees. He's got better tone than his slight frame would suggest, the lean muscle bunches and ripples through his torso as he works. Dark hair covers his chest, tapering down to a neat line before disappearing into his pants. Jim's mouth waters with the urge to follow it. With his tongue.

 _So beautiful._

Spock catches Jim staring and offers a solemn nod.

"I'm sorry, Jim."

Jim smiles loosely. "S'OK. S'all better now."

Spock's disbelief is evident in the arch of an eyebrow, but Jim figures he can probably get away with a little white lie under the circumstances. Spock finishes with the wrapping, efficient hands tucking the folds of the improvised bandage tightly into each other before tying the ends off at Jim's hip. His fingers slide along Jim's skin as he carefully pulls his pants back over the bandaging. Jim stifles a moan. Hopefully Spock chalks it up to the pain, but he can't be too badly off if he's getting a stiffy from emergency First Aid.

Spock takes the arrow and wraps it in another strip of his undershirt, tucking it into a pocket for later analysis.

Jim focuses on his breathing and the not entirely unpleasant warmth running through his veins. His erection flags as he relaxes inch by inch. The dappled sunlight is nice, Spock smells good, and the world is taking on a thick haze that makes worrying seem silly and pointless.

He tries to say as much to Spock but his tongue is heavy and thick in his mouth, rendering the words garbled and incoherent.

He drifts a little longer.

"Jim! You must remain conscious!"

He doesn't like the edge of worry in Spock's voice. Spock shouldn't sound worried. Spock should be happy. Like he is.

He opens his eyes and Spock's face is right in front of his. He's on his back and that seems odd, but it's OK because that means he can reach up and run a finger over the arch of Spock's cheekbone. He's been wanting to do that for _ages_ and it's just as soft and warm as he imagined, maybe even better, because he never could quite picture what Spock's reaction would be if he ever followed through and did it.

Spock's pupils dilate and little patches of green flood in under Jim's touch. It's perfect, so perfect.

"You're pretty." He says it simply. Wonderingly. Why didn't he say that before?

Spock inhales sharply. "You've been drugged, Jim."

"Yup," he agrees, because he has. He said that already.

Spock's looking freaked out again. Jim tries to smooth the frown away with his hand but it's kind of floppy and hard to control. He giggles when he smushes Spock's nose flat by accident.

"We must return to the ship. Doctor McCoy can find an antidote."

Jim blinks. Why would they want to leave? It's so nice here!

"If I help you stand, do you think you will be able to walk?"

Pfft. Walking's nothing. He can probably fly right now, he feels so light. "OK."

Spock holds out a hand and Jim grabs for it. He misses the first time, which is so hilarious he has to curl into himself to contain the laughter. He tries again and connects, threading his fingers through Spock's and relishing the feeling. They're holding hands. It's amazing. Spock's fingers are paler than his. Longer, more elegant, but still strong. Spock pulls up and Jim follows the motion bonelessly.

He stumbles. His leg's not working right. It's OK though, Spock's chest is a perfectly agreeable place to rest. He buries his face in Spock's tunic, nosing at the curl of black hair sticking out from the v-neck. "You smell good," he says. "Why'd you put your shirt back on? D'ya want me to take mine off?"

Spock shudders against him, but doesn't answer right away. It's still good. All shuddery, like just before a really good orgasm.

"Can you walk?" Spock's voice is suffocated. Jim glances up and sees the flush of green has spread to the tips of Spock's pointy ears. He leans up to trace it with the tip of his tongue.

Spock startles back, upsetting Jim's precarious balance. His leg won't support his full weight and he crumples to his knees. Spock looks so cute and confused standing over him that Jim's laughing helplessly again.

When he manages to catch his breath, Spock's face is carefully blank. His typically smooth cap of hair is dishevelled. Jim's fingers itch to card through it, brush it back off his forehead so he can see his entire face without its interference.

"If you are unable to walk, will you permit me to carry you? I do not think our communicators will function as long as we remain in this area."

Jim crosses his eyes at the idea. This day just keeps getting better! He nods eagerly and throws his arms open. "That sounds fun!"

Spock's lips twitch like he really wants to say something but is resisting the urge. He stares down at Jim for a moment before sighing and crouching so they're at eye level. Jim automatically leans forward a tiny bit.

"Please try to remain still, Jim." Spock's warm hands grip Jim by the waist and he lifts, slinging Jim over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

It's not exactly what he had in mind, but Jim's not going to complain. Especially when he gets to see the muscles of Spock's ass tighten, up close and personal, as he stands. His arms flop loosely over his head and he tries to sway them in time with Spock's stride.

"Please stop making this difficult, Jim." Spock says on the occasion of his second stumble when Jim gets distracted by the good things going on in Spock's pants and loses the rhythm.

"Can't help it, Spock. It's like we're dancing." His voice sounds better when he's talking to Spock's ass and not to the ground. It's kind of husky, like his Sexy Voice, but lighter, 'cause he's feeling _so_ good.

Spock hitches his shoulder and settles Jim back into place. "I fail to see the similarity." Spock's voice is always so serious. He likes it though. It's deep and sometimes, when he's alone at night, he imagines it in his ear when he's jerking off.

What were they talking about, again? Right, dancing!

"It's 'cause you're too literal. You're moving. I'm moving. We're moving together. That's what happens when you're dancing."

"Or fighting."

"Aw, I don't wanna fight with you, Spock. I'd rather dance."

Spock grips Jim’s waist a little tighter for a second. "Indeed."

That settled, Jim goes back to staring at Spock's ass. It's hypnotic. Bouncing up and down as his long legs eat up the ground. It's so close, pressing tightly against his uniform pants. All Jim would have to do to pinch it is lift his hand a tiny little bit.

"Jim!"

Spock halts abruptly and tugs Jim back over his shoulder. He sets him on his feet, supporting him with one outstretched arm, and takes a deep, steadying breath before shooting him a baleful look. Jim sways on his feet and makes grabby hands for Spock's shirt, because he misses the full body contact. Spock sees him coming and attempts to sidestep, the neat dodge ruined by Jim's uncoordinated flailing. They go down together in a tangle of limbs.

Jim cries out as the hurting comes back. It sings all over him and he whimpers with it, ruining the otherwise _goodgoodgood_ feeling of Spock's weight bearing down on him.

Spock scrambles to get his feet back under him, crouching beside Jim until the spasms subside. He's back to looking worried and Jim tries to smile and reassure him but he hurts too bad to be convincing. Spock reaches down and runs a hand down Jim's face, soothing him.

"Jim..." Spock says his name in an achy, quiet voice. "Your condition appears to be worsening."

"It hurts, Spock," Jim agrees. "Really bad."

"So I see." He pauses. "There is a method I could employ to attempt to alleviate some of the symptoms..."

"Are you going to use your Vulcan voodoo on me?" Jim asks when Spock doesn't continue. "That's what Bones calls it. Vulcan Voodoo. Isn't Bones funny? He's pretty too, but not like you. Nobody's as pretty as you, Spock." He nods to show Spock he's in earnest.

Spock's lips twitch in an almost smile and Jim's back to feeling warm all over.

"I like it when you smile at me."

"I shall endeavour to do so more regularly," Spock promises.

"OK," Jim says happily. "Are you going to do the voodoo, now? I think you have to touch me, don't you? Cave Spock touched me on the face when he showed me how him and other me used to be."

"Cave Spock?" Spock asks. "Never mind. Yes. It is a type of meld where I can attempt to block or take on some of your pain."

"Vulcans are so _cool_ ," Jim says.

"I assume that means I have your permission?"

"Indeed," Jim says in his best mock-Spock voice. It's a pretty good impression, just not as deep and growly.

Spock lifts an eyebrow and makes no comment, but he's kind of smiling again. Jim wishes he was close enough to kiss.

Spock reaches for his face, fingers splayed in an echo of the meld Cave Spock performed on Delta Vega. They stare into each others' eyes for a moment, Spock likely thinking thinky thoughts while Jim's just enjoying the pressure and the intimacy and counting eyelashes. Spock's breaths are quiet and measured and it's not long before Jim's breathing in synch.

"My mind to your mind," Spock murmurs, finally. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

Jim's brain is a pretty big brain, he thinks, even when it's being an utter bastard and he feels like he'll burst with everything he keeps locked in it. He remembers Iowa and the golden fields of wheat at sunset. He remembers what it's like to feel so hollow from lack of food that even waking drains him. He knows that the intermix formula in standard matter/antimatter warp drives should never exceed a 1:1 ratio. His mother was born on 2210.89. In another universe, Cave Spock will die promising his alternate future self that they will always be friends. Then he'll come back and his other self will have to remind him of why. His Spock always rests his spoon at a 45º angle to his tray when he's not holding it. The molecular weight of titanium is 47.88gm. He knows six different words for revenge in the Klingon language, but only one for love. There's a lot of information. A lot of memories. It's a big brain, but sometimes it feels too full.

When Cave Spock melded with him, the overload was like a rapid expansion of gasses in a limited space. It leaked out in his tears because he couldn't cope with the overflow of emotion, memories and the strange duality of experience in the pressure hot vastness of their combined lives. Jim's a little bit anxious that melding with his Spock will be the same. He doesn't think he can hold the three of them.

But he trusts his Spock.

He relaxes his death grip on his self and lets Spock in.

Spock's brain, rather than shove its way forward and displace Jim's information, seems to bind to it instead. It's like every fragment that makes up Jim is enhanced, shared. He's walking through a collection of memories and it's like Spock has been with him through it all. Jim and Spock witness a man order the deaths of half a colony to spare the rest. Jim and Spock watch his mom leave for something more exciting than motherhood. Jim and Spock throw Captain Pike's challenge in his face and dare him to keep up. It's exhilarating and Jim struggles to hold onto this simple feeling as long as he can.

For once in his life, he's not alone, and he wants to cry with relief.

Spock's presence is humming around him, inserting layers between Jim and the pain wracking his body. It fades to almost nothing.

He can sense Spock's pleasure at the accomplishment.

 _I believe this should suffice. How do you feel?_

 _Warmsafehappystay?_

A rich laugh bubbles up from beneath his childhood memories. _I cannot. We must return to the Enterprise. You are still wounded._

 _It doesn't hurt here._ It's hard, so hard, to force his thoughts into words when all he wants to do is blanket himself in Spock's presence and bask.

 _I am glad. Come, Jim. Return with me._

 _Just a little longer?_

 _We can do this again after you've been to sickbay._

 _Promise?_

 _Yes._

 _Fine._

 _I am stopping the meld now._

He feels Spock's mind detach from his own even as his fingertips leave the meld points on his face. He opens his eyes and Spock's right _there_ , dark eyes scanning Jim's face for signs of distress. He finds nothing because the pain has faded to inconsequential in light of the lingering sense of well being that followed them out of the meld.

It's the easiest thing in the world to stretch up and kiss him.

Spock's lips are soft against his own. He tastes like tea and candy.

He's kissing back.

Jim groans and licks into Spock's mouth, tracing the line of his teeth with his tongue. It's good, _so good_ , to finally know what this feels like. He can't remember why they haven't done this already but it doesn't matter because they're doing it now, and it's perfect.

Spock's hands are in his hair, tugging him closer. Jim goes easily, deepening the kiss. He reaches up and sneaks his hands under Spock's tunic, feeling the smooth muscle and crinkle of hair against his palms. He strokes and grips greedily, desperate to map out every inch of skin he's imagined touching until he knows it better than his own.

Spock pulls back and presses a series of soft kisses down Jim's jaw and onto his neck. He breathes in deeply and murmurs appreciative noises into Jim's throat. He shifts until his full weight is pressing Jim into the soft grass, the sharp scent mixing with the tang of their sweat and the richer earth.

"Spock. Spock. Spock." Jim's voice is shattered and needy. He grinds up and gasps when his dick brushes Spock's, hard heat obvious even through their clothing. He does it again, and Spock picks up the rhythm.

Spock's hands are completing their own survey, tracing Jim's hips and up his sides before skimming back down and caressing a thigh. Everywhere he touches tingles in the aftermath until Jim's body feels like it's electrified, one long, hot pulse of pure energy.

Jim wraps himself around Spock, writhing and winding until their tremors resonate and amplify. They're so close. Almost as close as they were in the meld. Heat and want and need collide within Jim until he embodies them. His teeth latch into the column of Spock's throat and he bites, hard, revelling in Spock's rough moan.

"Jim-" Spock's voice shudders and catches on his name, stretching it into a treatise on burning.

Jim bucks his hips and arches his back, trying to crawl into him. He licks a path up to Spock's ear and pours every moment of frustrated longing, every hope and dream and fear he's ever harboured into one soft sigh.

"Spock," he says brokenly as his orgasm shivers through him. "Spock."

***

  
His ass hurts again, but it's nothing compared to the realization that he and Spock are spooning. On the ground. In the middle of a mission. He wants to scream, to kick and curse and flail--maybe call Destiny down from the cosmos and rip her a new one. Or, maybe, he just wants to hide, curl into himself until he disappears so he doesn't have to look in the mirror tomorrow and see the face of a broken man who couldn't keep it in his goddamn pants.

Ah, metaphorically speaking, that is. He shifts slightly in Spock's arms, acutely aware from the rapidly drying mess at his crotch that his pants had been very much on throughout.

 _Oh. Shit._

The first thing Jim's going to do when he sees Daim again is punch her, right in her fucking cute little muzzle. Immediately following that he's going to figure out exactly how far he can run before Uhura finds him and guts him like the pig he is.

He figures if he gets enough of a head start he can probably live out his twilight years as an exotic dancer in some out of the way system until she catches up to him.

 _Emotional transference is an effect of the meld..._

He remembers his pithy reply to Cave Spock on Delta Vega. He imagines this is some sort of sick cosmic karma.

 _Fucking_ Destiny can kiss his throbbing, angry ass.

"Jim?" Spock says softly, right in his ear. He suppresses the pleased shiver that wants to crawl up his spine.

"Yeah, Spock. I'm back."

"It appears the effect of the drug has been burned out by our physical activity."

 _Physical activity._ Well, that's one way to put it. "I noticed." Jim gives himself a full second to pretend that this was real and not just the side effect of some wacky cupid mojo before asking: "You felt it too? After the meld?"

Spock hesitates, and Jim feels sick at the thought of his friend trying to phrase a delicate reply. His stomach sinks further when Spock finally answers, "Indeed. The effects were quite overwhelming."

Somewhere, in another universe maybe, some cosmic entity and Jim's entire roster of exes are killing themselves laughing over this. Jim kind of wishes he were there instead. "Right. Well. We should probably get back to the ship."

He can feel it when Spock nods solemnly, and he turns back to meet his eyes for the first time since...

Well, at least the Klingon story will have some good company in the sealed archives. He blinks and turns away, wiggling out from under Spock's arm awkwardly.

Spock rises with enviable grace and offers Jim a hand up. He waves it aside and lurches to his feet. His ass is throbbing viciously, which is a great complement to the emotional trauma he's going to be repressing for the _rest of his life_.

"Are you still in pain?" Spock's concern is like a knife to the heart.

"I'll deal," Jim bites out shortly. He regrets it immediately because while Spock's face is neutral, the hurt is still there, lurking behind his dark eyes.

"Sorry, Spock. It's... It's not your fault, OK?"

Spock doesn't answer. Jim's shoulders sag.

"Let's just go home."

He leads the way, limping slightly, out of the clearing.

They make decent progress by the light of the sun, but to Jim it feels like an eternity of agonized silence before the crystal towers of the main resort are visible on the horizon. He can safely say he's got a pretty good grasp on the concept of relativity now.

Jim's just about to reassure himself that things can't get much worse when Bones and Sulu appear at the top of the hill. And, even better, Uhura and Daim are right behind them.

"Captain Kirk! Mister Spock!" Daim greets, her ears are twitching happily, but her eyes are casting between them nervously. "I'm so glad you're safe."

"Are you now?" Jim asks flatly. He still wants to punch her, and it probably shows. She's smart enough to be standing behind Uhura who Jim pretty much wants to avoid forever. He's conflicted.

"Of course she is, Jim!" Uhura says with a frown.

"She just fetched us and said y'all were taking longer than you should," Bones says, frowning as he takes in their dishevelled appearance. "What happened? You look a sight." He reaches for his tricorder and is scanning them both before he finishes speaking.

Jim doesn't even know where to start. Blurting out: 'I got shot in the ass by this planet's version of cupid, only with more teeth and claws, and then I fucked Uhura's boyfriend on the ground after the most emotionally intimate experience of my sad, sad life' seems crass. Lucky for all of them, Spock's got no such qualms, and much better manners.

"We were attacked by a group of unknown aliens approximately 5.7 kilometers East of here," he says smoothly. "Jim was wounded and there were some complications related to his injury that required immediate treatment, which accounts for our delay." He reaches into his pocket and offers the bundled arrow to Bones. "Doctor, if you analyze this you will find traces of a chemical compound that induces euphoria and heightened sensations in humanoids."

Bones unwraps the arrow. "If that don't beat all!" He holds the shaft aloft, angling it so the light gleams off the stylized heart at the crown. Daim makes a strangled noise that is largely ignored by everyone but Jim. He glares at her until she looks away. "Jim," says Bones, with a laugh, "d'y'realize you got shot by a love dart on Valentine's Day?"

Bones's teasing grin dies when Jim's face crumples. "I noticed, yeah. It's not as much fun as the legends make out."

Spock stiffens beside him and he winces. Right. Save the breakdown for later, or, better yet, make later happen _now_.

"Look. Guys." Jim stares at them blankly. He has no idea what he can possibly say. "I'm sorry. I just gotta... I gotta go. Back to the ship."

He limps over to Uhura and puts his hands on her shoulders. Looking into her worried eyes is the hardest thing he's ever done. "Nyota," he says, seriously. "It wasn't his fault. I'm sorry." His calm facade cracks a little, along with his voice. "I'm so fucking sorry."

He rounds on Daim then, righteous fury straightening his spine. She stumbles back nervously. "As for you," he says with icy contempt. "If I find out you had any hand in this, there will be charges brought against your entire government. In the meantime, stay the fuck away from my crew."

Daim's ears pin back in terror, her mouth opening and closing like she's trying to speak but can't find the words. "But-" she finally squeaks. "But, it was _destiny_!"

"Oh, fuck you." Jim says bitterly before he turns away.

He doesn't look back.

Can't bear to look back, though he can feel Spock's stare burning into him.

Bones walks up beside him and offers a shoulder. He leans into it gratefully.

"Here now, Jim. Let's go home."

They leave.

***

  
Some high dosage painkillers and a run with a dermal regenerator later, Jim's back in his quarters, flat on his back and staring at the wall. His dad's portrait is still crooked, so he's mostly trying to straighten it with his mind and not think about anything else.

Bones, bless his bristly, belligerent heart, didn't push him for the explanations he's not ready to give. He had offered brandy and an ear, but let Jim back down with the weak excuse of needing to rest.

It'll all come out in the report, anyway. He had laughed the first time he saw that there was an actual _form_ for filing reports on 'Crew Interactions : Activities Motivated by Toxic Drug Influence'. He hadn't noticed the checkbox for "Requires Counselling?" then. Good old Starfleet thinks of everything.

He picks up his PADD and sets it down again.

He stares at the wall some more.

He's on the third round of attempted telekinesis when the door chimes. He swallows the dread and tells himself to man the fuck up already. Shuffling over to the edge of the bed, he sits up before calling: "Enter."

Spock steps through the door and into the room. He's had a shower and a turn with a dermal regenerator himself, all of the little nicks and bruises from their mission have vanished. Jim's heart squeezes painfully in his chest as he braces himself.

"Hey, Spock." He shouldn't sound so defeated. Blatant emotionalism is probably the last thing Spock needs from him. "How are you feeling?" There. Better. He almost sounded steady.

"I would ask you the same," Spock says without inflection.

Jim winces. "Well, you know. Other than completely terrified that I've ruined everything? I'm good."

"What, precisely, is it that you feel you have 'ruined'?"

Jim should have expected this too, he guesses. He certainly deserves it, though he'd kind of hoped Spock wouldn't be so cruel as to make him actually spell it out. "Our friendship?" he offers sadly, when he can finally speak past the lump in his throat. "Your relationship with Uhura? Any chance of keeping you from finding out that I'm desperately in love with you? Pick one, any one. They're all true."

Spock stiffens and inhales sharply, the first obvious emotion he's shown since he entered Jim's quarters. "Jim," he starts uncertainly, then stops, as if reconsidering. He takes a step closer to where Jim's perched on the end of his bed, then another, until he's standing only a few feet away. Close enough to touch if Jim had that right.

Spock lifts a hand. "Jim," he says again, stronger this time. "Meld with me."

Jim aches. How much worse can this whole shit show actually get before he's allowed to just break, already? It isn't enough to hear Spock's rejection? Now he gets to feel it too?

"Please, Jim."

Jim lets out a tiny, suffocated breath. He doesn't want to cry in front of Spock, so he avoids meeting his eyes. "Not yet. Just... Tell me about what happened after Bones and I left."

Spock's hand falls back to his side. "Very well, Captain."

Jim tries not to flinch at his title. He remembers how proud he was the day he got his ship and it's still the last thing he wants to be called right now.

"After you and the Doctor departed, Lieutenants Uhura and Sulu and I questioned Daim about the nature of the questing ritual and her claims of destiny." He pauses. "I find I can harbour no fondness for that word."

Jim laughs despite himself. "You and me both," he says with feeling. "You and me both."

"Indeed. She initially restated the claim that questing candidates were those chosen by destiny, by which means she could not disclose, to travel to the heart of Elaphe to find their true path. The pulse we detected over subspace was allegedly the form taken by destiny's call."

Jim nods. "Yeah, that's the line she fed us when we first met her. So, why us? Really."

"We were merely the first to respond. The Elaphian government has long purported that their planet is the source of love. It would appear that they have recently constructed a device to bolster that claim."

"I knew it! I figured it was something like that when the delegates were so eager to send us out there."

"Why did you not voice your suspicions at that time?"

Jim swallows. "I was curious?"

Spock frowns. "We will discuss your tendency towards unhealthy curiosity at another time, Jim."

A tiny thread of hope winds through Jim at this. Maybe the situation isn't completely untenable if Spock's still willing to lecture him on his recklessness. He risks a glance up and sees that Spock is watching him closely. He flushes and looks back down at his shuffling feet, before he gestures for Spock to continue.

"Once we obtained Daim's confession that there was a device creating the signal, it was a simple matter to deduce that once the targeted questing pair reached the clearing a jamming sequence was initiated, effectively stranding them in an idyllic surrounding until they acted on their desires. Commander Scott has dispatched a team of engineers to verify this."

Jim nods. "Good, good." He considers the events in the clearing as dispassionately as he can, avoiding staring directly at his actions and trying instead to picture their surroundings. "So, just in case they don't act quickly enough when they realize they're stranded, the Elaphians supply an army of cupid-beasts armed with aphrodisiac ammo to speed things along."

"Precisely," says Spock approvingly. "Only it would seem that the cupid-beasts, as you call them, happened to be executing a mass escape just as we were arriving. The actual scheme only called for one such creature to be released."

Jim facepalms. "Okay, first off - how the fuck is that fair? Why did they have to choose that exact moment to escape?"

Spock's eyebrow twitches, he's either very amused or very angry. Jim's not really up to speculating on which, so he keeps talking:

"And secondly? At what point did the Elaphians decide that grievous bodily harm was _romantic?_ Without the meld," he stutters as the memories rush back. He coughs and tries again: "If you hadn't been able to block my pain, I don't think anything would have happened. Except maybe some really bad poetry as the euphoria built up."

"Poetry?"

"Uh, later." _Never_.

Spock arches a brow in a silent promise to collect on that later. Jim's stomach flips between excitement and terrified nausea.

"I posed that question to Daim as well," Spock continues after a long, _significant_ look. "Regarding the arrow, that is, not the relative justice in the timing of the escape attempt. The creatures were originally armed with small, needle-like projectiles, easily removed and unlikely to cause any significant physical discomfort."

"Just mental and emotional discomfort after drugging two people into acting on a manufactured attraction?!" Jim says with some bitterness.

Spock shoots him another _look_. "This is the point we could not get Daim to abandon. She insisted that the compound would only activate in the presence of genuine regard."

Jim coughs uncomfortably. "Well, we can't really disprove that by me. I-" he starts, then slumps. "By now it's obvious that what I was feeling was real. And you said yourself that you picked it up from the meld. I guess she must have seen it and that's why she picked us instead of Rico or Flores."

"She did mention that she noticed our closeness when she initially observed us. She said she could read our hearts in our eyes."

"Cliche much?" Jim scoffs, rolling his own--decidedly _not_ heart-filled--eyes.

Wait.

 _Our eyes?_

"Our eyes?" he echoes softly. It hurts how much he wants this to be real.

Spock’s smile is gentle when he lifts his hand again. "Meld with me?"

Jim nods shakily, hope and fear and desperate longing roiling in the pit of his gut. Spock's fingers slide over his face to his meld points like he's tracing a well known path.

Jim's whole body shudders when their eyes lock. The full force of Spock's intensity is directed at him and it's almost overwhelming after the fucking day he's had.

"One more question?" he asks carefully, before Spock can say the ritual words to initiate the meld.

"Ask," Spock says, as patient as ever.

"Uhura?"

"Has been, and will always be, my dear friend. We ended our romantic involvement 2.7 months past." Spock ducks his head slightly before murmuring: "I had thought you to be aware."

Jim shakes his head slowly, as he reflects on their relationship in light of this new information. _Stars_ , he is such an _idiot_ sometimes. Some of the ache that's been crushing his heart eases. A genuine smile spreads across his face, the first in what feels like eons. "Do it," he says urgently. "Show me."

Spock does.

***

  
Jim emerges from their second meld with the same sense of ease as from their first. Only this time, when he leans up to press his lips against Spock's, he does it with the full knowledge that not only does he love, completely, absolutely, but he is loved in return.

It's headier than any drug.

***

  
 _One Year Later_

Destiny is a bitch.

Jim knows this, he thinks as he gapes in abject horror at the bouquet of writhing purple flowers being thrust at him by the smiling Klingon ambassador. He _knows_ he knows this.

So why is it always such a fucking surprise?

The smiling Klingon ambassador bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain portrait in a certain _sealed_ file that is Not To Be Spoken Of. Ever. By order of the Captain. Jim hadn't been sure what to expect when he'd been instructed to ferry the Klingon delegation to the Laurentian system for the upcoming peace talks, but it sure as hell _wasn't_ a familiar face in formal robes, bearing a clutch of carnivorous posies.

"Captain Kirk," the-Ambassador-who-cannot-possibly-be-who-Jim-thinks-he-is-because-even-the-universe-isn't-that-fucking-cruel says with a wide smile, the kind that shows all of his snaggled, crooked teeth. "I was most pleased when the High Council selected me as the liaison for the conference with the Federation."

"Yeah, I understand it's quite an honour," Jim says nervously. He takes two quick steps back when the Ambassador offers up the bouquet again. He's never had to dodge flowers before but these ones are alive. And toothy. And _hungry_ , if the way that they're snapping at Jim and the Ambassador and any flicker of movement means anything. There is no fucking way he's getting anywhere near those things.

The Ambassador inclines his head gravely, ignoring Jim's hasty dodge. "The highest of honours," he agrees. "I can only hope to live up to their expectations. I was also pleasantly surprised when I discovered that the illustrious Captain Kirk was to be my escort. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance." He leers at Jim, and shamelessly eye-fucks him, right in the middle of the transporter room.

Right in front of Spock.

The trilling pulse of a phaser set to stun fills the room, effectively halting all respective leering and backpedalling from the Ambassador and Jim. Mixed scents of ozone discharge and burning plant matter mingle in the air.

"I apologize," Spock says, breaking the stunned silence smoothly. He doesn't re-holster his phaser. "The _vix vir luguolis_ was preparing to strike, Ambassador. I had to act quickly."

The Ambassador's eyes narrow, darting from Jim to Spock to the possessive hand Spock has placed on Jim's shoulder. He smooths his expression to a neutral diplomatic mask and bows to Spock. "I thank you then, Vulcan, for your timely intervention."

Spock nods gravely. "It is my duty, as First Officer aboard the _Enterprise_ , to identify potential threats and handle them accordingly. No thanks are required, Ambassador, for I take my duty _very seriously_." His hand flexes on Jim's shoulder.

The Ambassador pales slightly as the implications sink home. "I understand," he says, finally. "We Klingons admire a warrior who will defend what is his." He casts one last regretful look at Jim's crotch and steps back. "Captain Kirk, if you would be so kind as to beam up the rest of my party?"

Jim smiles broadly. "Of course, Ambassador. Commander Scott, if you would?"

"Aye," Scotty says agreeably, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

"Mister Spock, I need to speak with you immediately. In my quarters."

"Of course, Captain."

They exit the transporter room, side-by-side.

It's their anniversary tomorrow. The Federation is taking the first steps toward reaching a lasting peace with the Klingon Empire. His ship is scheduled for a warp drive upgrade that's making Scotty drool in anticipation.

Destiny's a bitch, true. But he figures he and Spock can take her.

 _Finis_

 **SOOOPER SPESHUL BONUS ART** :

  
[](http://not-sleeping.deviantart.com/art/Fanart-V-Day-196979864)

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may have invented a new genre. Behold the cracky-angst fusion that is... CRANGST.
> 
> This fic ate my life this week and most of last. But it's done. Finally XD (It was due today and I, uh, may have finished writing it about an hour ago. Shhh. It's not procrastination, it's time management ;) )
> 
>  
> 
> But enough about me! I owe the fact that this is readable to the following group of people:
> 
> janice_lester was my partner in crime, the bringer of logic and coherency, the light in the darkness. Thank you so much, bb. This would not have happened without you.
> 
> Thank you to AngelBaby1 for being on standby for my breakdown last night with some soothing squee and great advice. (You're also getting a finger wag for inflicting the Zombie on Your Lawn song on me. All fucking day. IN MY HEAD. Where's my screen door shield, huh?)
> 
> anoncomment7 - your preemptive squee was revisited often when this thing started hurting me. Thank you for reminding me that I like writing XD.
> 
> Thanks to ashleyj28 and awarrington for doing such a great job with the ksvalentine community and letting me be a part of it.
> 
> You guys are amazing~!
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!


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